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smallhands Mar 2017
irises are blue,
pupils are black
from lover to lover
the colour changes back

baby eyes smile,
light reflects feeling
coming closer to learn
the life of the girl
you are seeing

smallhands Mar 2017
is it a second chance or the twelfth?
the stars around my heart are fighting again,
sparking up the little adolescent muscle in my chest
because the danger in metaphors caught up
with me and they convince me I'm not living

in the real world, I bite my lip
I walk alone

but when I think of you
my heartbeat-
you take it away

these faulty stars know ways to go and stop
and start again
but they are still only juveniles

the twelfth chance spins into the thirteenth
so I let go of my lip and slow down or
run ahead to meet you
and my heartbeat becomes me

smallhands Mar 2017
to invent something, one becomes obsessed with the one real altering "what"
inventors spend summers and springs in their attics
attempting mad tries concerning a last ambiguity
being wise does not always work in said theorists' formulas
madness breeds brilliance, but one botch will torch onlooker's perceptions

smallhands Mar 2017
how the writing thins because another day heaps promptings onto her overthinking head, harrowing laments and fantastic stories
she gets some time alone, quiet, where ideas amplify or where dreams turn boundless

smallhands Mar 2017
because the day was over
and it was quite alright to say goodbye
she skipped formalities
and lay her head on her own pillow,
her dreams already beginning to whisper to her

smallhands Mar 2017
there were billions of bodies buried beneath my feet
and the sun shone
to say it was a new day would be a lie
it was a resuscitation of the one before
a chance to make amends
or so I thought

smallhands Mar 2017
your algebra is senseless, you know- we learned so long ago to carry the zero
maybe as the numbers add up, days, squares on a calendar, you're only thinking how it will be when she goes

what a blue monday it was, hearts trapped in a hurricane
scribbled scattered formulas flashing in your head, her eyes reminding you of the innocent laying on your bed
notes are in a windstorm, and in the calm middle, you hear her say
even the prettiest equations couldn't solve us

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